


A Life of Ice

by Anysia



Category: Frozen (2013)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dark, Angst and Tragedy, Character Death, Guilt, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-16
Updated: 2014-01-16
Packaged: 2018-01-08 21:58:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1137869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anysia/pseuds/Anysia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maybe it was true love after all. But love doesn’t always work quite like it does in storybooks. (Character death, major angst.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Life of Ice

**Author's Note:**

> The result of a Tumblr discussion — assuming Elsa was safe and not out on the fjord during the climax of the film, would Anna have been saved if Kristoff reached her and kissed her, if it had to be an act of true love on Anna's part?
> 
> There are potentially two options: a beautiful, heartwarming one, and a heart-rendingly tragic one.
> 
> This is the latter.

Ice is his life.

 

It has been for so long, since he was little, since he was old enough to lift an ice gaff and feel the pull deep within his shoulders as he hefted a neatly-cut block from the frozen lake, proud, accomplished, finally _something_ other than dirty, orphaned, and poor, held on the fringes of society.

 

Until… her.

 

She changed everything.

 

She could have… changed so much.

 

He goes to the mountains the day after (he can feel his life divided now, clean as the ice he cuts, into Before Her and After Her), tries to forget, tries to pretend nothing’s changed, nothing’s happened, but the first push of the saw into the ice cuts through him and he starts, breath caught tight in his throat, heart pounding, vision fading.

 

And he’s back on the fjord, the storm settling around them, fierce wind and blinding snow clearing a path to her, where she stands, hunched over, hands clutched to her chest, skin and hair snow-pale as her lips are moving and _he’s_ moving, as fast as he can, his boots sliding over the ice as he quickly gains his footing and gains traction and gains _speed_ , and _Anna, **Anna,** where is Hans, it must not have worked, have to save her, have to do **something** …_

He reaches her and catches her in his arms, and she’s heavy with frost, snowflakes and fingers of ice creeping over her face, and she whispers his name in a dry, rough whisper, turns her eyes to him, and he chokes back a sob at the open love in her eyes and he doesn’t even think, he doesn’t even _hesitate_ , he just wraps her in his arms and lifts her up and _kisses_ her, as hard and as deep as he can.

 

He’s never even done this before, never kissed anyone, but if it was going to be anyone, let it be her, let it be _now_ , and he’s never, ever been a religious man but he prays, fervently, as he tangles his hands in her hair, the strands like frozen, brittle straw against his palms, and kisses her harder.

 

He pulls away, eyes desperate and pleading, and stares at her, just for a moment, not knowing if it’s working, if it’s _not_ , how are they supposed to _know_ …

 

"I love you," he says, truthfully, desperately, just to be sure, because she’s still cold, so cold in his arms, and his heart plummets, and oh _god_ , he wasn’t… she wasn’t…

 

"Thank you," she says, and she’s crying crystalline tears, freezing on her cheeks, and her eyes are soft and sad and so very scared and he’s never been more terrified and close to breaking in his life.

 

"Anna…" he says desperately, and he can’t stop touching her, even as his skin seems to be freezing to hers, even as she turns paler, ice curving around her temples. "Anna, you can’t… you _can’t_ …”

 

She smiles at him, just a little, and reaches up to touch his cheek as blue ice spreads out from her heart, across and over and _through_ , and one last, meager breath frosts in the air between them.

 

And everything is silent. Still.

 

His heart seems frozen in place, as icy-solid as the girl in front of him, and he wonders, through a haze of tears, through the abject agony that seems to be tearing at him, if this is what it felt like for her.

 

He hears soft hooves behind him on the ice, but he barely notices as he gingerly runs his hands over her frozen cheeks, her frozen lashes, and he kisses her again, just to be sure, and again, and _again_ , over and over as his tears drip onto her frozen lips and Sven buts at his side, gently, sympathetically.

 

He finally turns away, places his hands on his knees and retches, because he let this happen, he could have done more,   _could_ he have done more, what did he do wrong, what did he _do_ , why did he _leave_ her…

 

_She didn’t die alone_ , he tries to tell himself, but that’s just admitting that she’s _dead_ and he can’t take it, he can’t, and he’s that little boy who watched his parents fall to the wolves again, who lost everything he’d loved in one heart-shattering moment, and he can’t see, can’t think, as he blindly hauls himself up into Sven’s saddle and spurs him on, away, desperate to run, to escape.

 

Sven, perhaps understanding, breaks into a gallop and obliges.

 

—-

 

The memory ends on a sharp gasp, and he realizes he’s leaning hard against his saw, concerned voices around him, Sven nudging at his side, and he knows that he’s crying.

 

"It’s nothing," he sniffs in what he hopes is a manly way. He’s never cried before in his life, and he’s not going to start now. He’s loved and he’s lost, it’ll be okay. He’ll be fine. Really.

 

The other harvesters shrug and turn back to their work, but then they’ve never been much for feelings, and neither had he.

 

Until her.

 

He can’t focus, not at all, and it’s a dangerous thing on the mountain, but he can’t stop the memories, vivid and painful, and he can’t stop _seeing_ her, and it was so wrong, so _wrong_ for her to be still and quiet like that, she should be vibrant and _alive_ , even if it wasn’t with him, even if he never saw her again as long as he lived, even if it had to be _him_ frozen and lifeless there on the fjord… it should have been him, it should have been _him_ , anything to make her warm again… _anything_ …

 

At midday, he finally drops the saw, stares out at the lake, and there’s nothing but a deep, yawning emptiness in him as he observes the crisp, clean sheet of ice, the glittering snowpack, the frosted limbs of the nearby pines.

 

Ice was his life.

 

Until it took the one thing that had become more important than his own.

 

He turns, unthinking, unaware, and walks towards the forest.

 

Sven is beside him in an instant, braying in concern, eyes soft. He tries to smile, pats his flank.

 

"Reindeers are better than…" he starts, but his vocal chords can’t seem to twist into the familiar shape of Sven’s voice, and he stops, arms limp at his sides.

 

_Not better than her_ , he thinks.

 

Nothing was better than her.

 

Nothing ever would be.

 

The harvesters watch them go, idly curious as they go about their work, the odd flash of concern carefully concealed beneath rugged stoicism.

 

They don’t return that day.

 

Or the next.

 

Or again. 


End file.
